


The World Thereafter

by Anonymous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Five years after the Battle of the Five Armies, a chance reunion in Rivendell gives way to an unanticipated reconciliation between Bilbo and Thorin, if old wounds and unspoken truths can be dealt with first.[An AU in which Thorin Oakenshield survived the Battle of the Five Armies but never reconciled with Bilbo after the events at the gate.]





	The World Thereafter

Rivendell rose before him, a fortress of whites cupped in the palm of the valley. He had dreamt of it many times over the past years, suspected that every being who had stepped into its halls inevitably did so, less a real inhabited house than a place of infinite mystery and alien beauty. 

In the years after what he had colloquially started referring to as his ‘little adventure’, ennui had settled in whenever he went wandering beyond the borders of the Shire. Forests, tempestuous rivers, white-capped mountains no longer made him stand still in slack-jawed awe, seemed familiar and known. Yet in the shadow of Rivendell, the last Homely House, the all-encompassing wonder he felt was the same as it had been when he had first seen it, a creation beyond all understanding that was impossible to grow acquainted with.

He crossed the stone bridge and passed the statues guarding the entrance, eyes fixated on the sights before him. The sun was setting earlier than he had expected, casting an orange glow through the numerous arches and glassless windows. He had not kept track of how many days it had been since he left Bag End. It must be close to autumn now. 

An elf in dark dress was waiting for him in the courtyard. “_Mae govannen, _Master Baggins,” said Lindir and bowed in greeting, “You must forgive me, I was unaware that you were gracing us with your presence today, otherwise I would have sent out a party to welcome you.” 

“_Mae govannen_, Master Lindir,” Bilbo repeated, “And please don’t apologise, I did not tell anyone I was planning on coming here. I probably should have sent a letter ahead to let you know," he added bashfully, "What an intruder I am."

“I am sure my Lord Elrond will be delighted to find himself in your company, but it is a dangerous journey to have made all by yourself,” Lindir looked around as if expecting secret travelling companions of Bilbo’s to materialise behind a pillar. “If you had let us known, we could have ridden out to greet you.” 

“I had no troubles. There was a bandit camp outside of Bree that I had to sneak past, but I've encountered no one else since then. The last few weeks have been awfully quiet.”

“Your small statue must be of benefit to you, our hunting parties have encountered many unsavoury sorts near the mountains in the past weeks. Vermin gets emboldened when the days grow longer,” he was smiling at Bilbo in that manner of elves, where it was impossible to tell if it was genuine or supercilious, “No matter— I am glad you have made it here safely. What is the cause of your visit? Do you wish to speak to Lord Elrond?” 

“Ah, yes,” Bilbo fiddled with the straps of his backpack, “I was actually wondering if I could stay here for a while. You see, I’m writing— well, planning on writing anyway, this guidebook for hobbits on travelling beyond the Shire. The Hobbit’s Handbook for Adventure, if you will,” Lindir's expression had definitely shifted to condescending now, “Most of us are quite content to stay in the Shire or Bree for most of their life, but for those of us that aren't, well… I thought I might lend a hand there. And Rivendell would be the perfect place to start my research, which is why I’m here. If you’ll have me, of course.” He felt a sudden pang of shame at having invited himself over.

Lindir’s face was once again a mask of politeness, and he nodded. “Very well. I shall show you inside.”

Bilbo scrambled to follow the elf up the wide staircase and inside the main building. The hallways of Rivendell were a little bit more familiar to him, filled with soft noises coming from behind closed doors and balconies. Somewhere in the distance a lute was being played.

“Master Elrond will be pleased to see you,” Lindir noted as they strolled through the corridors, "He speaks of you often. I'm sure our other guests will enjoy meeting you too."

Bilbo had to tear his eyes from one of the wall murals to answer. 

“I’ll be pleased to see him too, it has been a long time since our last meeting.” And during their last encounter he had been too busy marinating in self-pity to spend much time with his host.

Lindir came to a halt and pushed open a set of rosewood doors that Bilbo had previously noticed but never gone into. Rivendell’s library sprawled before them in a room that must have been several stories high, a milky light heavy with dust particles filtering in through windows on an upper level. Bookshelves taller than most trees, neatly filled with leather-bound books, old scrolls, and artefacts on glass pedestals. Clusters of elves bending over wooden tables, pointing to places on ancient maps and cross-referencing in books. Seeing the sheer volume of texts on display, Bilbo wondered if the combined knowledge of all of Middle-Earth was kept here, in the slightly damp-smelling heart of Rivendell.

By the time Bilbo’s gaze had wandered back to eye-level, Lindir had approached one of the groups and an elf wearing a silver circlet had looked up. Though Rivendell had been a pale imitation of the real thing in his mind, its Lord was a familiar presence. Stern-faced, beautiful in that distinctively elven way, kind-eyed. 

“If it isn't Bilbo Baggins,” Elrond greeted him, and Bilbo was certain that he would be granted a place to stay for the night, “What brings you here?” 

He told Elrond all about his purported book over dinner. It had been a half-hearted hint of an idea in his mind hours ago, but as he spoke to Elrond, he found himself elaborating widely on the planned material, ranging from what routes to take safely across the Misty Mountains to the best material for travelling handkerchiefs. Bilbo, of course, had forgotten his own handkerchiefs at home again. 

Elrond listened intently, sitting across from Bilbo on the balcony, the two of them sharing a single table with a few empty chairs.

“It is a commendable task you have ahead of you, but I admit that I wonder if it is a futile one. In all my years I have heard of only a single hobbit who ever went on adventures.”

Servants kept on refilling their wine glasses, and Bilbo was a bit drunk.

“Well, Lord Elrond, we might yet surprise you,” Bilbo told him, but privately wondered if it was true. There was no one like him in the Shire. “We hobbits hold more in us than most suspect. Some of us are known to go on adventures. ” One adventure, if he was being precise, and oh how that one had ended. 

“Of that I have no doubt. But I know how much hobbits are creatures of domesticity,” Bilbo tried to interject, but Elrond continued, “You may view that as a slight, but I promise you that it is not intended as one. It is a great privilege in this day and age to be assured of the comforts of home. To love ones home and not have to fear for it. There is no greater gift than that.” 

Bilbo picked at his salad, surprised at the sudden heftiness of their conversation and unsure of how to respond. He had forgotten how difficult speaking to elves was, how elusive the real meaning behind their words was. Maybe Elrond had guessed that the book was not his actual reason for being in Rivendell, maybe he understood the true reason better than Bilbo himself did. 

“In any case, you are more than welcome to stay as long as you like and use Rivendell’s resources and our library. You will always be a guest here, Bilbo Elf-friend.” Elrond raised his glass, “But it has been long since you have graced our halls. You must tell me of your return to the Shire.” 

Bilbo launched into a reiteration of the chaos that his last minute return from the dead had caused in Hobbiton, a story that Elrond seemed to find amusing in his own reserved way. Servants came in and cleared off their silver plates and refilled their wine glasses. Elrond was pleased to learn that Bilbo had taken up learning Sindarin, and insisted on testing his vocabulary, his expression perfectly polite as Bilbo butchered one pronunciation after the other. 

He reminded Bilbo a lot of Thranduil, perhaps only by virtue of being the only other elf-lord he knew. Though where Thranduil had been cold and reserved, Elrond was kind-hearted and intimate.

An elf stepped beside Lord Elrond and leaned down to whisper something in his ear. Elrond thanked him and dismissed him with a gesture.

“I am told our other guests will be finally joining us. You must be glad to be reunited with them.”

Bilbo looked up in surprise. “Other guests?” he asked, his mind immediately jumping to Thranduil again, and then, bizarrely, to Gandalf. 

“Has Lindir not told you? I thought you knew.”

Bilbo frowned. “He did mention some guests.” That at least explained the empty chairs. 

Elrond arched an eyebrow. “Your old companions arrived here a fortnight ago. They were supposed to dine with us tonight but were delayed on an excursion.” 

“Old companions?” Bilbo parroted helplessly, wine glass lifted halfway to his mouth. Then, something dawned on him, and he knew, even though it could have been anyone else from the company—

“Thorin— Thorin is here?” he asked, dread like a thin blade settling in his gut.

As if summoned by his name, heavy footsteps arose from the hallway before Elrond had the time respond. Three dwarves walked onto the balcony, dressed in travelling cloaks and slightly tousled, having evidently just come back from their excursion. 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin Oakenshield’s face mirrored Bilbo's own confusion. Behind him, Dwalin, as grim-looking as ever, and a young dwarf that Bilbo did not recognise. 

“Master Oakenshield,” Elrond gestured towards the empty chairs without getting up to great them, “Please, we have been awaiting your arrival.” 

Thorin tore his eyes from Bilbo to incline his head. “We were hindered by an injury in my scouting party, one of my men slipped and fell from a rock. You have my apologies,” he told Elrond as he and his companions settled at the table. Servants immediately came and brought them leftovers from dinner.

“Is he alright?” Elrond asked with concern.

“Yes, it is but a strain. Your physician is looking after him,” Thorin was distracted, staring at Bilbo from across the table. “Bilbo, I had no idea you would be here.”

When Bilbo did not immediately respond, Elrond jumped in for him.

“Master Baggins just arrived this afternoon, I daresay his visit came as a surprise to anyone but himself,” Elrond was looking from Thorin to Bilbo, privy to the tension between them but unsure of the reason for it.

Bilbo shook himself from his reverie, tried for a smile and then cringed at how artificial it was.

“Trust me, the surprise is all mine, Thori— er,” he paused, “your majesty,” he tried. He glanced over at Dwalin to acknowledge him, but Dwalin gave him a hostile look that made Bilbo swallow. “It has been a long time."

And it had been very a very long time. He realised in that moment exactly what stretch of time five years was. Thorin’s hair was streaked with more silver than Bilbo remembered, and, although his face was less bruised and dirtied than it had been, underneath he was definitely older. He was dressed - not ostentatiously- but finer than Bilbo had ever seen him, royal garments befitting of a travelling dwarven king. Dwalin's uniform seemed to match Thorin's, perhaps as part of his royal guard.

Something flashed over Thorin’s face, and he nodded at Bilbo. 

“It is good to see you. It seems that the years have treated you kindly," Thorin said softly. 

“Yes,” Bilbo said, looking down at his plate, then up at Thorin again.

His tongue was a blunt weight in his mouth, and he felt far away from his own body, far away from the dinner table. His mind was circling back to their last encounter and dredging up details that Bilbo had thought long since forgotten. Thorin’s hands on his lapels, the hard press of the stone firmament underneath him, the threat of the drop a clear presence against his back. He had known what Thorin would do, had known it when he had given away the Arkenstone to Bard. But still, hanging over the ramparts, he had been scared senseless, had grieved for the loss of their friendship, had the distinct sensation of a part of his life closing off forever. 

It was an old wound, one that Bilbo had let fester for a while but then cut off, one that was not quite strong enough to retroactively ruin the entirety of his adventure for him. But then again he had never expected to see any of the dwarves again. 

The table was silent for a few moments. Elrond, with a sidelong glance at Bilbo, turned to the third dwarf whom Bilbo had not recognised, and asked him questions about their excursion, the dwarf replying willingly enough in a deep voice. Bilbo kept his eyes on his plate.

“I am sure you are tired from your journeys, but you are more than welcome to join us in the great hall for stories and song if you are interested,” Elrond told them after the dwarves had finished eating and their plates had been cleared off. He turned to Bilbo. “Your room has been prepared for you. If you are not joining us tonight, I shall see you in the morning. I am looking forward to further discussing this book of yours,” he said, lips quirking. 

With a hasty bow to Elrond and the dwarves, and not making eye contact with anyone, Bilbo let an elf guide him to his room. It was the same one he had inhabited during his return journey, but he would not have been able to find it in the labyrinthine structure of Rivendell by himself. His bag was waiting for him on his bed and his walking stick was leaning against the door. He dropped onto his bed without taking off his clothes and shut his eyes, trying to supress the incessant oscillation of his thoughts. Before long, he fell asleep, but he woke up a few hours later with old anxiety at the back of his mind. 

Rivendell’s corridors were empty when he left his room. It must have been some time after midnight. No lamps adorned the hallways, but moonlight flooding in from the windows illuminated his surroundings well enough, giving them a ghostly aura. Music was coming from where he guessed the great hall to be, but, following a whim, he went in the opposite direction.

He found himself on a balcony behind an archway, small enough for only a marble bench snuck between two pillars. He sat down and lit his pipe, smoking away in solitude. Lanterns were shining like white stars below his balcony, and the monotone rumbling of the waterfall filled the air. Soon, with his nerves calmed by the pipeweed, he was half-asleep in the mild breeze.

Footsteps approached from behind, then stopped abruptly. Bilbo startled and almost dropped his pipe. As he had known during dinner, he knew again who it was and turned to face him.

Thorin looked very regal, framed in the archway. He had shed his travelling clothes and was dressed down in a dark grey gambeson.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Bilbo asked him, not unkindly. His nap and the pipeweed had mellowed him out, and he felt cosily tired, all of his anxieties from the evening not gone but less omnipresent. 

“Something like that.” 

He scooted to the side, and Thorin sat beside him after a beat, leaving a handful of space between them. He lit his own pipe and they smoked in silence for a few minutes. Thorin seemed content just looking out into the valley before them, but Bilbo was watching him. Creating a mental catalogue of how he had changed. His face was more lined, but there was also something else that Bilbo could not put his finger on.

“That is not something one can ever get used to,” Thorin said. 

"What?"

"The view," Thorin gestured to Rivendell spread out before them.

Bilbo was incredulous. “Really? You, admiring elven land?”

Thorin shrugged and lifted his pipe to his lips. “I don’t have to love the people to love the land.” 

“It unnerves me, sometimes,” Bilbo ventured, “how different they are from us. Knowing that no hobbit or dwarf or human can create things in the manner that elves do. I'd like to believe that I have come to know them, at least better than most hobbits do, but every time I see their buildings or their art I am confronted with the fact that I understand very little of them."

"You speak as if no hobbit or dwarf or man is capable of creating true masterpieces." There was a hint of that old pride that Bilbo knew. 

"Oh, I think I have seen enough of the world by now to believe that they can. It's just... different.” How odd, seeing Thorin for the first time in years and discussing elven architecture with him. Odd, when the last time Bilbo had seen him, Thorin had tried to kill him and almost started a war. 

"Why are you here, Bilbo?" Thorin asked, his voice neutral. 

It took Bilbo a few seconds to respond.

"I'm writing a book," he answered vaguely, as he had done with Lindir. It occurred to him that he should be afraid of Thorin in the close quarters of the balcony, after what had happened during their last encounter. He looked over, and Thorin was still gazing into the distance, the red glow of his pipe softening his features.

“Why are you and Dwalin here?”

“Politics, mostly,” Thorin finally glanced at him, “We have a steady supply of dwarves from the Blue Mountains who wish to return home, mainly displaced old Ereborean families. It has been difficult getting them back— safe passage across the Misty Mountains is still not guaranteed. We were hoping to negotiate with Lord Elrond that travelling caravans might stop here to regroup, and that Elrond’s people may accompany them part of the way. In exchange for trade goods and money from Erebor, of course.” 

That surprised Bilbo, but he supposed that was the sort of thing Thorin went in for these days. Alliances and political manoeuvring. He wondered if Thorin had used Orcrist since the Battle of the Five Armies.

They lapsed into silence again. There was an air of melancholy around Thorin that Bilbo could not place, one that had not been there before. It was what he had been unable to name earlier. Maybe kingship did that to you, or maybe losing your sister-sons and only heirs did. How could he know? He had not been there to witness any of it.

“You will be glad to learn that Erebor has been flourishing in your absence, and Bard of Laketown and his men have settled at the foot of the Lonely Mountain. Dale is standing once again. Even our relationship with the Woodland Realm has improved,” Thorin grimaced, “although Thranduil still likes throwing stones in our path whenever possible. Many of Dain’s people have decided to stay, and… he has been named my heir,” he continued speaking as if the small hitch in his voice had never occurred, “People, our people, arrive at the gates of Erebor every day. Families who have been split for a century are reuniting, the forges run hot once more. Ereborean craftsmanship is second to none.” 

“Balin and Bofur told me some of that in their letters.” Frankly, Bilbo was not sure why Thorin was telling him this now, could not understand him. Were they going to pretend they had parted on kinder terms? Anger flared in him at that, and he wished for his living room in Bag End, longed for the seclusion that had driven him out of his home in the first place. 

Thorin dipped his ashes over the balcony and was now looking at him intently. Bilbo did not respond, thought instead of their journey. His earlier anger had faded back into the sadness that had festered in him whenever he remembered that period of his life. The bitter end it had all come to. Fili and Kili laid out on the floor of a tent in their deathly pallor. Thorin still unconscious a tent over. 

Bilbo stood up and dusted his pants off. He would go to his room, and he would avoid the dwarves as best as he could over the next few days before he travelled onwards. He had grieved deeply once, but time and distance had mended those wounds. No use in dwelling on old hurts.

“Thank you,” he told Thorin, not sure what he was thanking him for, “I shall retire to bed now, I think. I've had a long day. Good night.” 

Before he could walk away, Thorin stood up and reached for his hands.

“Bilbo,” he spoke, his face serious. He was silent for a while, but gently tightened his grip when Bilbo tried to extricate his hands. All tension seemed to dissipate from his frame suddenly, some threshold having been crossed.

“Bilbo, you don’t know what it has been like tonight, seeing you here. After you left, I thought I would never see you again..." he trailed off, then recollected himself, "But it has been good, seeing you. I never thought I would get to say this, have this chance."

What a forlorn figure Thorin cut against the night sky, Bilbo thought. He let go of Bilbo’s hands.

“I wish you had departed from Erebor under better circumstances. All this time and I thought our friendship was irreparable, and now—. I want you to know,” he grew more vivid with every word, “I wish to take back my words and actions at the gates that day. I was half-mad with greed and the sickness of dragons, but even so I acted indefensibly towards you. When you betrayed my trust to steal the Arkenstone, I thought I could kill you with my bare hands, I will not deny it. But when I woke up in the healers’ tent after the battle, my sister-sons amongst the fallen, I understood that you had acted only out of the utmost loyalty and bravery. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a kinder place. I am so sorry for the hurts I have caused you.”

Something burned in Bilbo’s throat. Thorin seemed to take his hesitance as an answer and took a step back.

“If you wish for me to leave, I understand. I do not expect anything from you, but I am beyond grateful that I got to tell you the truth." 

“No,” Bilbo was startled by the vehemence in his own voice, “Stay. I just need to think.”

“Peace, Halfling,” Thorin held up the palm of his hands. 

To hear this apology now, to hear it after so much time had passed.

Sometimes, on one of those many lonely nights when he had been unable to fall asleep in his bed in Bag End, he had come up with fantasies in which Thorin apologised to him. He would wake up one night to a loud pounding on his door, open the door to see a dwarf on his knees and in tears, begging him _Bilbo please forgive me I was so wrong I couldn't see_—

In other scenarios, it was Bilbo who made his way to Erebor, stepped into Thorin’s throne room (which in his mind’s eye was still as desolate as it had been when they had entered the Lonely Mountain) and held a great speech outlining his grievances to Thorin and the peoples of Erebor, forcing Thorin into repentance in front of all. Those fantasies had only occurred to him on particularly bitter nights, and he always felt ashamed of himself the next morning.

And this real apology, when he thought it would never come, never thought he would see Thorin again. It was not as humbling as Bilbo had dreamt it would be, and Thorin was not prostrated in front of him in shame, but Bilbo could still tell that it came from an innate place of truth.

“Alright,” he said, and released his breath. 

It was not the catharsis that he had expected, but he felt some of the tension leave him. It had been a long day. 

“I accept your apology, and,” he hesitated. Thorin’s features were unperceivable in the night. Once, Bilbo had known him well, and despite the bitter discoloration that the years since had left on their relationship, maybe he still knew him. “I’m glad. I’ve missed you.” His own voice sounded distant to him, almost reticent.

Thorin was still, then brought up his hand to touch the side of Bilbo’s face. They looked at each other. For a moment Bilbo saw a stranger standing opposite him, a foreign king from a strange land that he had never visited, then Thorin pulled him in. They pressed their foreheads together, a gesture that Bilbo had observed amongst the dwarves but had never participated in. It was strangely intimate. 

“Thank you,” Thorin said after they had parted, “Hearing those words from you is more than I could have ever asked for.”

They smiled at each other, Thorin all crinkly-eyed. It made Bilbo flush with pleasure, made him suddenly acutely aware of his limbs. He wondered if Thorin was going to hug him, wanted him to, but the moment passed. 

“I can’t believe you’re here, just by chance. This is the first time I’ve left the Shire in months and you just happen to be in Rivendell. And Dwalin too— he seemed mightily annoyed with me during dinner. I suppose things haven’t changed all that much,” Bilbo babbled, "And you must tell me all about what has happened in Erebor since I left!" 

“Will you stay here long? How much time do we have?” Thorin asked him. 

“Oh, as long as it takes to write my book. And that is very much in its infancy right now.”

“I am glad to hear it. I have so much to make up to you. And I feel much better knowing I can have you at my side when negotiating with Elrond," he said with good cheer, "He has not been very forthcoming to us. Not that I can blame him."

“So you just assume that I would side with you over Lord Elrond in this matter,” Bilbo teased him, and laughed when Thorin frowned and muttered something under his breath.

They fell silent again. Bilbo was giddy from their unexpected reunion, and wanted to tell Thorin so many things, yet it was far into the night and he had travelled many miles during the day. The words would not come to him that night, but they had days spread out in front of them now.

Then, to his great embarrassment, Bilbo let out a yawn.

“Sorry!” he covered his mouth with his hands. 

Thorin chuckled and rose from his bench, extinguishing his pipe.

“I have kept you up, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bilbo said but got up as well, stretching his stiff limbs. It seemed like Thorin was not the only one who had aged. 

“I will see you tomorrow?” Thorin asked hesitantly, a vulnerability there that Bilbo had not expected. 

“Yes. Of course you will,” Bilbo told him gently, “Good night.”

In the hallway he stopped.

“Thorin?” 

The dwarf turned back to him. 

A question that had been ghosting at the corners of his mind for a while. The letters from Balin and Bofur had never said. 

“Whatever happened to the Arkenstone?” He asked. 

“Bard returned it in exchange for his promised share of the gold. It now rests on the tomb of my father Thráin, whose body Gandalf returned from Dol-Guldur,” Thorin told him, “Goodnight, Master Baggins”

In his room Bilbo hastened into his nightwear, extinguished the lamp and huddled under his blankets. There were so many things he wanted to ask Thorin, things he needed to tell him, an uncomfortable truth he had evaded for long coming perilously close to the surface, but for now Bilbo turned over and fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So the first draft for this was written in 2013, almost exactly six years ago. I found the document again recently and decided to rewrite all of it, but jesus how old editing something you wrote in middle school makes you feel!


End file.
